If people were books, she was the word.

She was dying, hanging part conscious, part sinking. Her words sank like wet ink into the pages of her book. She was dying inside. Her words were on the book, but her soul, left somewhere else. The insides of her dying like a yellowed page of a century old book, part tearing apart, part holding strong. 

There are times when she knows she has nothing to lose, but yet she can't let it go. Like the words hanging off a torn page, she part grips, part slips away. Her mind is imminent on the page, but her soul, lost, unable to move on. 

Her words were like magic, flowing like silk, down the page of my book. It was part soft and comforting, part happy yet depressed. Her words, like fingers, sharp but delicate, small but warm. Her words flowed out of her pen like they were meant to be. 

But as the book was on its way she got lost. Somewhere on the page of her book. Her head full of the words she longed to express, but no page she could cling on to. She was lost in somewhere deep and dark and dangerous and somewhere she should not have gone to, somewhere you should never dare enter. 

She did not find her way. There were never enough pages for her words. There were never enough words she could say, and never enough ink to sink her words into. 

If people were words, she was the quote everyone remembered.